"Stop staring." Maxine scolded Debbie.
"Was I staring? I didn't realize it!" Debbie exclaimed in shock. She looked up at him again.
"He's good-looking. That is my type."
"He has unusual features. Foreign," Debbie admitted.
He leaned against the bar. He kept his back to the table, where the girls sat. His gaze reflected another place and time, than the nautical theme of the Surf Club, Debbie's favorite Upper East Side bar, where they now sat.
He leaned toward his friends, then threw his shoulders back in a Western type of swagger; not a formal stance. Debbie did not realize that her upswept hair and deep blue eyes combined to form a picture of innocent longing, which appealed to the stranger.
He leaned forward without meeting anyone's eyes and crunched his cigarette into the ash tray that lay inches away from Debbie's hand.
She lowered her eyes, made slightly uncomfortable with the proximity of his gesture.
DENISE HICKEY
# 0657D
Spring of 1988
The Upper East Side
